


no matter the distance, i'm holding your hand

by princeyoungjaes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Babies, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:26:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7015156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/pseuds/princeyoungjaes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos thinks a lot. And there is a surprise.</p><p>"She’s feather light, and somehow still heavier than he expected. His dreams are usually weightless."</p>
            </blockquote>





	no matter the distance, i'm holding your hand

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so obviously I'm not good at summaries yet. That is basically it though. Erm.  
> This is my first official published fic.  
> I hope you enjoy.

Athos and Sylvie settle down in a small town, not too far from Paris, but not too close either. Sylvie’s pregnancy is a difficult one. She spends a lot of time with the orphan children of the village, like she did in Paris – there are orphans all over France, and the war continues to make more – but she tires easily, so before long they start coming to their home to see her, they love her so much already.

She’s going to be an amazing mother, Athos thinks as he watches her with some of the youngest children, teaching them to add and deduct numbers with cookies and letting them eat some as a reward, pretending not to notice that more and more are vanishing in between exercises. One of the little girls has crumbs at the corners of her mouth, and Sylvie brushes her fingers through her brown curls.

A boy comes up to him, no older than six, missing one of his front teeth. He nudges his knee and very shyly asks him if he can sit on his lap. Athos’ heart skips a beat, but he fights down the surge of fear and lifts the child up. Surely he has faced more dangerous challenges. He returns his attention to Sylvie, trying not to think of what sort of father he’ll be.

“Were you really a Musketeer?” the boy asks suddenly, blushing slightly right after. Athos smiles down at him. 

“I was,” he says, and tells him the story of how they saved Agnes and her baby. It’s been on his mind a lot lately, especially how he kept the baby safe and quiet, soothing him softly.

 _I’m still a Musketeer_ , he thinks that evening, when he is with Sylvie in their little garden, one arm around her. 

Being a Musketeer hasn’t been all about duty and law for a while now. He used to need it - the apparent simplicity of it, the structure of it. But he doesn’t need it anymore, just like he doesn’t need to look for oblivion at the bottom of a cup of wine anymore.

What he needs is what being a Musketeer became to him: his friends, his _family_ , and all they taught him and all they share.

He receives frequent updates from Constance and d’Artagnan, the latter still stubbornly calling him Captain. Athos smiles fondly whenever he reads it, and calls him Captain in return, underlining the word for emphasis. Athos knows that d’Artagnan is taking his duty seriously, even without reading the reports. He’s always had faith in him.

By all accounts Porthos – General Porthos – is winning the war single-handedly. Athos doesn’t wonder at it. He’s always known how capable and intelligent and strong Porthos is, and he’s seen the light in his eyes when he looked at his wife and daughter. His friend has more to fight for now than ever.

Aramis already visited them once. Athos suspects Her Majesty begged him to take some time off. One of d’Artagnan’s letters informed him that Aramis was quite as insufferable as always – he’d already summoned him to the palace more than once, only to tell him all the little jokes “the dusty old council members” had not been able to appreciate.

Athos is pretty sure d’Artagnan loves these meetings with the Minister more than he lets on.

Athos sometimes helps Sylvie with her political texts, which she still writes, even though she likes the Queen. The fight for equality and liberty never ends, she says, and Athos knows she’s right, as she very often is. 

They get distracted a lot, pull each other in and share kisses, sometimes fierce and hungry, sometimes soft and comfortable, like it is now, in the garden, their fingers intertwined. Athos hums against Sylvie’s lips, and puts his other hand on her belly, stroking his thumb up and down.

Athos still doesn’t know if he deserves his family. But he’s happy they’re with him nonetheless.

-

Athos is often afraid for Sylvie. As the months pass he sees her get exhausted earlier and earlier. He sees her discomfort, and does all in his power to help, would do anything to take it away completely. He’s already found the best midwife in the area.

He knows Sylvie thinks he fusses too much, has suspicions that the rare herbs she needed for her grandmother’s tea were a ruse to get him out of the house for a little while. He tries to restrain himself, but it’s difficult. 

Athos is no stranger to fear.

He’s been afraid of his own heart for years, of that part of him that made one bad decision after another. This fear would rise up and choke him, and he could only keep going with the help of wine, of his duty, and his friends. His friends, who still managed to find his heart where he thought he had safely buried it.

Porthos would call his endurance in those years strength. Athos himself is too used to thinking of it as weakness.

He feared for his friends, over the years. All it would take to extinguish their light from the world forever was a stray bullet, a sword stroke, Athos’ past swallowing them whole, Aramis sleeping with the wrong woman. He made himself more vigilant, a better soldier, a leader though he never meant to be one. And by some miracle they all pulled through.

He didn’t fear his own death for the longest time; during the first few years he would even have welcomed it. And just when he was starting to feel fully alive again, Lucien Grimaud appeared, like some sort of spectre of death, threatening everything he held dear. 

He still dreams of him sometimes, though less frequently than before. He wakes up with a start, to the sound of Sylvie whispering to him: “He’s dead. He’s dead, you killed him, we’re alright.”

She puts his hand on her belly then, kisses his forehead and sighs when Athos shifts closer to her.

He loves her so much. Maybe even more now than during those first weeks, when he forgot everything for her, when he was the last to arrive at the garrison because he had lingered too long in bed with her.

It hadn’t hit him quite how far gone he was then, until he asked her to tie him up for the first time, and she agreed, kissing him so sweetly. He gave up every inch of his tight control to her, let her take him apart and put him back together, and felt a deep calm and new strength seep into his bones.

It wasn’t and isn’t like it was with Anne, a feeling so violent there was a sense of unhinging. Instead Sylvie settled him, while at the same time making everything brighter, not drawing him in like a will-less thing but making him feel lighter, so much more free than he had done in years and years.

With her his heart is safe, and at peace.

He breathes Sylvie in and smiles, a soft and real smile, even though there is an edge to it. They are alright, but still Athos can’t extinguish his unease, his fear. If he lost her, he himself would be lost.

-

He doesn’t lose her. 

The birth takes a long time, hours feel like days, and Athos makes himself not get in the midwife’s way. He follows her commands, like a soldier, and that he can do. He sits with Sylvie when he can, lets her squeeze his hand till it hurts, kisses her knuckles and whispers soothing words to her. 

There has been no battle, no fight in his life during which he was this afraid, and still he holds on to his composure.

When it’s all over he sits there, stunned, while the midwife cleans up. Sylvie is looking at him out of half-closed eyes, smiles faintly at the sound of the babies. Babies. Plural. 

“Sylvie,” Athos says hoarsely, “we have two children.” He stares at her. “Two.”

Sylvie smiles weakly. “I know, Athos, I counted them.”

The midwife brings the babies to them when she’s done with them, and Sylvie wants to hold them both – her boy and her girl. _Their_ boy and girl. The woman looks doubtful, but carefully puts them in Sylvie’s arms after a moment. 

Sylvie barely has enough strength to hold them both, but she stubbornly manages anyway. She’s so strong, his Sylvie. 

And as Athos looks at her and the babies, a fuzziness creeps into his consciousness, familiar from the times he passed out from a wound, but this time there’s a warm edge to it. _Twins_.

Sylvie’s exhausted voice rouses him gently, and she inclines her head towards the midwife, who looks like she’s been trying to get his attention for a while. She probably has. She hesitates, takes in his pale face. “She will be alright,” the woman promises. “She’s very strong.”

Athos smiles and nods slowly. “I know.”

He manages to get up without falling over, and pays her for her services. He returns to the bed then, and his heart nearly bursts at the sight of Sylvie smiling down at their babies, a smile so beautiful he almost can’t believe this is real, and not one of his better dreams.

“Athos,” Sylvie says, and it’s like a caress, the way she says it, more loving than any endearment could be.

“Hold your daughter.”

Athos swallows, takes in how fragile she is, but then he pushes down his fear and takes her.

She’s feather light, and somehow still heavier than he expected. His dreams are usually weightless.

Athos feels clumsy, holding her, like he’s doing everything wrong, but his little girl doesn’t seem to mind. She makes a little noise and grabs at his shirt with one tiny hand.  
“They’re beautiful,” Athos whispers, and Sylvie nods, too happy to speak. She’s smiling through her tears as she looks at Athos and their daughter, and strokes her son’s black tuft of hair.

They really are beautiful. Healthy, with brown skin and dark hair, with tiny hands, and little faces that remind Athos more of Sylvie than of him.

Sylvie reaches out her free hand to him, and he leans towards her, little girl in his arms, until their foreheads touch. 

“I love you,” he whispers.

Their son sighs softly between them, and their daughter gurgles.

“I love you,” Sylvie replies.

-

The tears come later.

After feeding their children, Sylvie falls asleep right away. Athos puts both their children in their crib – luckily they both fit into it – after holding both of them, one after the other, in his arms.

He stands there looking down at them for a long time, caressing their little heads, making sure they're warm. His son grasps his finger in his little hand then, and something shifts in Athos.

He sits on the edge of the bed, his back to Sylvie’s sleeping form, and he cries. He’s silent, but the tears are streaming down his face, and he’s trembling.

They’re tears of joy and of fear, and something that feels entirely nameless. Tears for the past and for the future, tears representing everything that he’s kept a tight lid on all this time, now feeling like it’s pouring out of him; and how can _he_ ever be a father.

Sylvie wakes up with a little “Mm?” and he feels her shift slightly.

“Come here,” she says after a moment.

Athos’ hands are fisted in the covers and he brings them up to his face, rubs at his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he gets out.

Sylvie waits patiently for another moment.

“Come here, you silly man,” she says then.

Athos comes, settles down beside her, but keeps his eyes closed. He’s ashamed – she’s exhausted, she’s the one who endured all that pain, he shouldn’t be acting like this. And yet he keeps crying, until his throat is raw, and his eyes are burning, and his nose is running.

Sylvie doesn’t ask him what’s the matter, just lies close to him and wipes at his tears with her thumb. How well she knows him.

Athos is grateful for her silent comfort, and the storm inside him finally settles when he has no tears left. He sniffles and listens to her breathing.

“You’re going to be an amazing father,” she says in the end. She must see the face he pulls, for she cups his cheek and insists, “You are.”

Athos opens his eyes in time to see her smile. 

“You have had plenty of practice being a father over the years, with those friends of yours.”

Athos is silent for a moment, but then he chuckles, and then he laughs, soft but long, and he moves closer to Sylvie, burrows into her and nuzzles her neck as she brushes her fingers through his hair. He has an arm around her, extra careful with her tired body.

They fall asleep like that, and sleep until the babies wake them. 

-

The next morning is peaceful, Athos’ fears put to rest, at least for the moment, with the night. He sits beside Sylvie on the bed, holding their son, while she’s holding their daughter. Sylvie is leaning slightly against his shoulder, while they have the discussion about names again. Athos feels like they’re getting closer to reaching a decision.

Athos sighs. "Do I have to get up?" 

Sylvie shifts and elbows him in the ribs, gently, so as not to disturb the babies. Their son is sucking Athos’ finger enthusiastically. 

"Yes! You have to tell them."

Athos sits up, and then leans in to steal a kiss from Sylvie’s lips. He feels her smile against his mouth, takes a deep breath and parts his lips slightly. He catches himself and pulls back, just a little. “I will get up now,” he murmurs. 

“Yes,” Sylvie says, “you should.” 

But she kisses him, and keeps him in bed several glorious minutes longer. She smirks when he pulls back with a soft noise of frustration.

Athos puts their son down on the bed next to Sylvie, warm and safe in the blankets, and then he sits down at the table to start a letter to Porthos, informing him that he has a niece and nephew.


End file.
